Futile Devices
by Xazz
Summary: That was Azrael, that black thing, something that would hate and be hated and would kill these men. All of these men. He would not rest until their blood was on his hands.
1. prologue: Allah is a Lie

A commission for nyapowa (think I spelled that right) here on , I can't remember their Tumblr URL. They wanted a commission about Al Mualim, and how he became Mentor and why he betrayed the Order. Basically a commission chronicling his life.

Fuck as if I needed the excuse /rolls around

Soooo many Al Mualim feelings you have no idea. All of this is made up, even though Rashid ad-Din Sanin was a real man, he isn't _my _version of Al Mualim. You want history, go read a wiki. This is my version of canon.

Also note that there are going to be _a lot_ of OCs in this story, as for a good portion of time most of the characters aren't even born yet, or don't enter till much later. If you read A Lily in the Valley you'll see familiar names as I am of the habit of reusing names and characters. This story isn't at all connected with Lily and exists in its own world.

If you want to commission me too- **tinyurl. com/bn9vn2j**

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Some of his first memories were that of camels. Huge, ugly things with floppy mouths and eyes with long eyelashes that any woman would have killed for. He was sitting on the back of one and his father was in front of him, great wide back swathed in white, robes ballooning in the hot, desert wind, guiding the beast down some trail he couldn't see but that his father seemed to know very well though to Azrael the land looked very much the same from all directions, no matter where he looked.

He was small then and could be easily lifted up in one arm by his father who was a big man with a thick black beard. He couldn't remember his face though, time and sand had washed it away from his memory. His father was a cobbler, a maker of shoes, and had lost a finger from his trade. Men like his father did not leave the city they were born in, too poor.

They were from Medina, the city of the Prophet Muhammad, but Azrael knew nearly nothing of his teachings though the boys down the lane had known a great deal. They went to pray at the mosque twice a day at least, five times if their parents scolded them. Azrael and his father never went to mosque. He could remember his father telling him, "Az, my boy, Allah is a lie. You should never need Allah's approval to do anything. Follow your heart, for it's less corrupt and always truer then any words Allah will tell you," and he'd stare up at his father with his gray eyes and nod. He didn't really understand, but who was he to question his father? His mother was dead, taken by the birthing fever shortly after he was born, and he was an only child, and his father held no other family in Medina. Later he'd think how strange it was that a man born in Medina would have no family there. But he'd been a boy then, it hadn't mattered to him.

The great dunes of Arabia were spread out before their camel as they walked along with a long line of camels. His father said camels were ships of the desert, they could take you anywhere you wanted to go in this 'Godforsaken waste of a world' so long as their was sand beneath their feet, much like a ship could travel over any water. He had never seen a ship, only little toy boats his father would craft from leather or paper and float on the top of their wash basin. He assumed ships looked like camels, only they swam, and were probably bigger, much bigger, since ships could carry dozens of people, hundreds of people, maybe all the people he'd ever seen back in Medina.

The other members of the string of sand ships- camels- were merchants, traders, wanderers, messengers, and guards. You always knew the guards from the others because they carried gleaming swords on their belts wrapped in drab scabbards and covered in sand, though the blades were shiny and silver. The guards would smile at him at the night from around their cook fire when he'd stare at them from his father's side. One had lost two teeth in the top of his head and had made a copper coin appear from behind his ear, by magic, and then given it to him. His father hadn't been happy about that and had tugged him away. "Do not trust the quick handed Azrael," he said afterwards, "They'll steal from you, quick as can be. Instead have quicker hands, and an even quicker tongue." He'd just nodded, because what could he tell his father otherwise?

It was a hot day, all days were hot on the yellow grained sea, and he was lulled by the motion of the camel under him. At one point his father had moved him to the front and he leaned back against his father's strong chest. How funny a cobbler would have such a muscular chest and arms and eyes like a raptor, watchful, predatory. "Baba," he'd said, half asleep now, the camel's rocking like his father's arms when he couldn't find dreams and he'd sit in his lap and his father's humming and rocking would send him to them, "why did we have to leave Medina?" he looked up at his father who's face was hooded and shadowed by a cowl to keep the sun off his face and out of his eyes. All he could see was his father's beard, thick and black and neatly kept.

"Because, my heart," his father had said, voice a deep rumble of a thing that he could feel in his chest, "Some men are not supposed to be happy."

"Like you baba?"

A smile had touched his father's face, "Yes, my heart. Men like me are not supposed to be happy," he didn't know what that meant. A cobbler should be allowed to be happy, surely. "Medina was not safe for us anymore," and he patted his shoulder. "We're going to Riyadh, it will be safe there."

"Why isn't it safe baba?"

"Because, there was ghosts in Medina," he said softly, leaning down to speak near his ear. His eyes were shadowed and dark and he focused on his father's nose. "Ghosts and blades that dance without hands attached to them. Wraiths that sneak into your room and leave behind dead things in the night. That is why we're leaving Medina, my heart," and he'd patted his head affectionately. He'd been silent after that, looking out across the desert from under his own hood and robes that protected him from the sun too hot Arabian sun. The motion of the camel lulled him, his gray eyes closed; he slept.

He woke to the sound of yelling. Loud yelling, near screams, and the sound of camels and horses braying and whining in panic. He jolted awake at the awkward gait of the camel, uncontrolled and running. He looked back, his father was gone. Desperately he grabbed hold of the camel's reins, but he was too small, and the camel did not seem to notice.

Then, like a little white shadow, a man appeared from the sand. Or a ghost. He had no idea from where the man had come from before he had grabbed the reins of the camel and dug in. The camel brayed, angry, terrified, and looped around, making a semi circle around the man.

"You, boy," the man spoke Arabic, but his accent was different. "What is your name?" he demanded. Azrael stared at the man. "Answer me boy," he snapped.

"A-Azrael," he said, voice long and washed out, half snatched strait from his mouth as if the wind didn't want the man who held his camel's reins to know.

"Azrael what?" he asked.

"Azrael al-Aalam," he said.

The man laughed, it was a horrible mocking thing that made him shiver on his camel despite the heat. "That old bastard," he jeered and then pulled him down from the camel. He was small enough, and light enough, that the man could carry him if he wanted. He didn't.

The man in white tied his hands together instead and dragged him and his camel back to where there were other men, more camels and horses, all riderless, and bodies. He could recognize the bodies of the guards, laying like rag dolls in the sand, their gleaming silver swords gone, and blood marring the pale sand till it looked like they rested on a nests of sand sized rubies. Most of the merchants and other men were unharmed, corralled with their animals and things by more men in white, dressed exactly like the one leading Azrael, white robes cut long and to their forms, hoods deep and beaked at the point. Red sashes coiled round their waists and armor glittered on their forearms, swords at their sides, secured by belts.

In the middle of the entire thing, was his father, his hood had been cast off, but he could not picture his face. All he remembered was his beard, and his black, black, eyes that widened when he saw him and he suddenly slumped. He was on his knees, facing a man with a very serious scowl on his face, hooded like the rest of them.

"Adel," said the strange man, addressing his father. But no, no that was wrong. His father's name wasn't Adel, it was Said. "Brother," Azrael frowned, this man was not his father's brother. His father had no family, they were all gone.

"You are no brother of mine," his father growled from between teeth that were stained red with his own blood.

The man, whoever he was, acted as if he'd never spoken, "You stand before us, for being a deserter, and a traitor to the Order, a crime punishable by death. You deserve death twice over for what you've done," the man's lips curled in a sneer. "But, alas, Allah saw fit to give men only one life from which to draw breathe with," he seemed amused. "What do you have to say Adel?" he asked.

"You can all go rot in hell," his father spat. "I did nothing that was not commanded of me, and when I decided to do otherwise, I got the a knife to the throat," he glared at the man.

The man tutted, shaking his head. "Such a shame," he said, as if he meant it. "You were a good one Adel, a master-

"I spit on you and that cage," and his father did indeed spit, right between the man's shoes, his saliva red.

"I thought you'd have better manners with your son here. But, I suppose a dog is always a dog-

"You leave my son out of this you shit eating son of a whore," his father snarled. The man struck him then, hard, across the face with the meat of his hand. Azrael cried out in distress, the man who held his camel put a hand on his shoulder. It was like a vice and he whimpered with pain. It squeezed harder, he made no sound.

The man before his father pulled on his face, "Now, you should know by now to hold your tongue before your betters Adel. Clearly your time away rotted you. You stand before us as nothing-

"More then you," his father roared, "I am free of those shackles, and my eyes are open. The Order-

He was struck again and this time toppled over into the sand. "Baba!" Azrael cried.

"Silence the whelp," the man snapped and the man holding his shoulder clapped a hand over his mouth. "Al Mualim has ordered your death Adel," he said, "you really made him very upset."

His father laughed, pushing himself up off the sand, it was dry and ragged, a wheeze of a thing. "And that old man sent his loyal hunting hawks to find me, didn't he?" he asked, sneering. Azrael's eyes were wide with fear.

"He did," the man said and produced a long white feather. "It's time Adel."

His father's eyes were hard as iron and then he looked right at Azrael. "Azrael," and in that moment there was no one else but them. He'd remember his father's eyes until the day he died, but he could not recall his face. "I love you, my heart. Don't forget what I've told you," and then he looked at the man. Azrael swallowed as his father sat up, kneeling on the sand once more. "Tell the Master I will see him in hell," he said and tipped his head back, revealing his throat.

The man said nothing and produced a blade from nowhere, as if producing it from his very body. Then in a fluid motion, as though he'd done it a thousand times before, he slashed open his father's throat. He wasn't sure if he screamed against the hand clapped across his mouth. The man held onto his father's hair, keeping him upright, and drew the long white feather across his red throat. Then he let go and his father fell to the side. He did not rise.

A nest of sand grain sized rubies formed under his head.

—

The men let the train of merchants and messengers and traders go. They had no quarrel with them. Azrael did not go with them.

He was tied to the saddle of a horse, his legs secured to the sides, hands bound to the pommel. The horse wasn't moving, but was held by the hand of the man who'd killed his father. Not directly of course. But the man holding the horse's reins was with the man who had. They, all the men, less then a dozen but more then half a dozen, were talking.

"Al Mualim never said anything about him having a kid," one said, "and the Order isn't of the opinion of making orphans."

"He belongs to the Brotherhood," said the man who _had_ killed his father. "Adel broke his vows, the Creed, and this bastard is all that remains. But, he is ours," the man looked at him from under his hood. He couldn't see the man very well though, his vision was thick with tears. All he wanted was for his father to pick himself up off the sand and take him in his arms. "We will take him to Alamut."

"We will?" one asked him. "Al Mualim did not-

"Al Mualim is not here. _I_ am," the man growled at who'd spoken. "We do not kill children." Then he turned to Azrael again. "Boy," he said, "What is your name?" He did not answer and then yelped loudly when the man holding the reins squeezed his calf. "Your name, boy."

"Azrael," he sobbed, hating himself for speaking. "Azrael i-ibn-Sa-Said al-Aalam."

The man smiled a thin, cruel smile. "It was," he said. "You are no longer that for at Alamut you will not be allowed to stink up the halls with words from that traitor," he swallowed hard, thickly, trying to keep the tears back in his eyes, but it was hard. His leg hurt from the man holding the reins, and his heart was an open wound, as though the organ had been freshly carved from his chest. "Mmm," he looked thoughtful then, putting a hand up to stroke his short beard. "Rashid," he said, "Rashid ad-Din Sinan. What do you think?"

He had a feeling he was not supposed to answer. He did anyway. "My name is Azrael," he said thickly. He yelled when the same man squeezed his calf, it felt like he wanted to rip the meat clean off the bone.

"No. It is not," the man said in an infinitely patient tone. "What is your name, boy?"

Sobbing, unable to stop the tears, he said around around the pain in his heart, "R-Rashid ad-Din Sinan," and he swallowed again.

"Excellent," the man clapped his hands together once, "It seems even a bastard's whelp can learn to be a proper man," and several of the other white robed men laughed. Something dark, black, and ugly unfurled from Azrael's chest. He hated them. He hated all of them. They took his father from him, and now they stole his name as well, casting it aside like they had his father's body, into the unforgiving desert sand and wind.

The man said they should move out and the men in white mounted onto their horses, one climbing up behind him, and they set off in seemingly a random direction. They talked, and joked, laughing at times, seemingly without regard to the fact that they'd just killed men, several men.

Azrael sat quiet and slightly shell shocked on the saddle in front of the one man who'd helped kill his father. The horse smelled different then a camel, the gait even different. He didn't like it, or the unfamiliar man at his back who had a too loud voice and a thin, unkind laugh. He rode the day in silence with the men. The sun turned the desert red as he set and they untied him enough for him to eat, rub feeling back into his hands, and piss and shit, then he was tied again, hands and feet and set by the fire with a blanket.

He lay with his back to the fire, eyes closed. He did not sleep. His mind kept replaying the day, over and over and over again. His father's voice, his face, the last words he'd said, and then the red that spilled from his throat cut open from a previously hidden knife. The little black think in his chest had grown bigger in the day. He hated them. All of them. These men were evil, awful. His father's words, to always trust his heart, rang in his head. His heart was telling him to kill these men, to avenge his father.

He would. He swore he would. Somehow, someway, these men would die by his hand. They'd taken everything but his life from him, and then he somehow knew only just barely. He had his life, but it was not his own. Azrael had been cast aside, and Rashid had been force fed into his mouth. But Azrael was not dead, and Rashid was not alive. He was still Azrael, the name his father had given him, though his mouth would say Rashid, he was only a parrot, mimicking words. He held his name Azrael, close to his chest and fed it to the black thing there.

That was Azrael, that black thing, something that would hate and be hated and would _kill_ these men. All of these men. He would not rest until their blood was on his hands. He swore… not to Allah, for Allah was a lie. He swore to his father, and his ghost, that he would avenge him and that his death would not go unpunished.

His dreams that night were of blood to the tune of his father's humming as he was rocked to sleep.


	2. He Has Many Names

Alamut was a cold, lifeless, gray mountain of a building. Azrael didn't remember coming to it, they'd ridden in during the night, and he'd been asleep in the saddle behind one of the men. He should have learned their names, for later, but even if he'd wanted to a child's mind was a sieve and they would have just trickled out his ear when he went to sleep each night. The man unburdened himself of Azrael and left him in a care of a man in a white robe trimmed in black. The man who _had_ killed his father told the man in the black trimmed robe his name was Rashid ad-Din Sinan. He'd been too tired to correct him, barely able to keep his own feet in the late night. Even if he had he knew he would have been struck for it, the men who had killed his father hit him when he did not respond to Rashid, or when he tried to say his name was Azrael.

The man in the black trimmed robes had looked at him, his beard was wild, but not in an unkept way, and his eyes were watery and pale brown, and had nodded said something but Azrael couldn't remember what and then took Azrael by the hand. He was led down a hall without windows to a door, which was opened and he was pushed in, "This is where you will stay," the man in the trimmed robes had said, voice like sand slipping over itself, a dry, soft sound. And then the door had closed, and then locked with a thick bolt from the outside.

He didn't bother to inspect the room, he just crawled to a pallet on the floor and curled up on it, under a blanket that was just thin enough to leave him cold. But he slept and he dreamed of the warms streets of Medina, as he did often on the road, and the children he played with down the lane, and the imam calling the Muslims to worship, and the sound of his father's hammers as he made and repaired boots. They were better times and the road from Arabia to… wherever _here_ was had been long, hot and cold, and miserable. He had been alone.

He missed his father.

He missed his name.

He woke when the door opened, an unquiet sound that had him sitting up. One thing he had learned on the road with those men who's names he couldn't remember, was that when they woke, you'd better wake up too, or they'd smack you on the cheeks or buttocks. Not to hurt, but to make you start. "Ah, good," he blinked, wiping his eyes with his fingers. It was a man with a black trimmed robe, but not the one he'd seen last night, a different one, younger, with a well kept beard streaked with silver. He wore a hood as well, also white, like the men he'd rode with, but unbeaked. "Get up boy," the man said, "Get up Rashid."

He got to his feet, his legs still hurt from the horse ride which he wasn't used to. A camel had been better, they were not so wide. "Come boy," the man beckoned. With nothing else to do he went.

"Who are you?" he asked the man as he walked after him.

The man did not answer right away, "I am Harutyan," he finally said. It was a strange name, and not one Azrael was familiar with. "Do you know where you are?"

"Alamut?" he asked, slightly unsure, Harutyan was tall, even for a fully grown man, and his strides were long, Azrael had to take nearly four steps to equal one of his, especially as Harutyan walked quickly and with purpose.

"Yes," Harutyan said with a nod. "But where are you?"

"Uh… I don't know." The man smiled, obviously he knew that would be the answer. They did not speak again as he followed the man down the hallways, he was quickly lost. Then they came to a wide, open doorway and Azrael could smell good things coming from within.

The room was large with several long tables set up running the length of the room. He saw boys sitting at them. Most of them were older then him, teenagers in gray robes trimmed in darker gray, but there were a few children as young as him, dressed in shapeless white things that made them look lumpy and malformed. The tables were laden with breakfast food. His stomach alerted him to his hunger. Harutyan told him to go eat, lessons would begin after breakfast, though he had no idea what that meant.

He found an empty seat beside a boy in one of the shapeless white garments. The boy looked at him, chewing with his mouth open. Azrael stared back at him. The boy swallowed, "Hi," he said.

"Hello," he said quietly.

"Are you new?" he asked, Azrael nodded. The boy looked a year younger then him, or maybe he was just small for his age. "I'm Jawad," he said and put more _manoushe_ into his mouth.

"A-Rashid," he said.

The boy smiled slightly, "Are you an orphan too?" Azrael nodded, "So are most of us. Eat, lessons start soon," and Azrael knew then that Jawad was older then him, though he looked small and lumpy. Azrael helped himself to the food, _manoushe_ as well as pita and hummus and olives and cucumbers. Jawad poured him some tea and it was very sweet, Azrael liked it a lot. Once he was eating he realized just how hungry he really was and Jawad chuckled at him as he ate quickly. He hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon, as the men had been keen on getting to Alamut before the morrow.

"Where are you from?" Jawad asked.

Azrael had to swallow, hard, as his mouth was full of food. "Medina," he said and swallowed again.

"No wonder you sound funny," Jawad giggled a little, "I am from a town outside Damascus, here in Syria. Have you ever been to Damascus?" Azrael shook his head. "It is the most beautiful city in the Holy Land." Azrael didn't know what the Holy Land was, he supposed he knew but it was a fleeting pinprick of information and meant nothing to him. He held nothing holy, he didn't really understand the concept. "I bet you'll get to see it one day," he promised, "When we're older, and allowed to leave the fortress."

"Jawad stop talking the new boy's ear off," another boy, who looked the same age as Azrael said. "He's going to be confused enough his first day without you going on about Damascus."

"I can do what I want Gregory," he said irritably.

Gregory, that was a strange name. Azrael said nothing, he just ate more _manoushe _and tried not to get in the middle of the small argument that started between the boys.

A man in white and black robes appeared in the room and all the talking immediately and they got to their feet. Azrael was a bit behind the others, but he stood next to Jawad who had his eyes on the man in black and white. "Boys for the threshing are to report to the main gate," he said somberly, "The rest of you go to your class."

The room emptied quickly, but Azrael didn't know where to go. The man in white and black walked over to him, "Why didn't you go to your class?" and for some reason he knew that such disobedience would see him struck. The men on the road had struck him often enough.

"I don't know where to go," he said and swallowed.

The man eyed him, "You're that one they brought in last night," it wasn't a question, but he nodded anyway. "Stay here," he said and left the room. Azrael sat where he was and waited quietly, popping a few more olives into his mouth as he waited.

A teenager came into the room, he wore gray robes and a gray tunic and a gray hood. "You," he said and Azrael hopped to his feet. "How old are you?"

"Six," he said, the teenager was even harder then the man with a compassionless face.

"Where are you from?"

"Medina," he licked his lips.

The teen nodded and then grabbed his hand saying, "We'll get you some new clothes and then you'll be sent to class. Ask your class mates what to do, or your instructor. I will alert them that you're new from Arabia, that you know nothing." Azrael shrunk into himself a bit at his tone. He was pulled down a long set of halls, all of them mostly empty and all of them windowless, lit by lamps and mirrors to another room that smelled like soap. A man sat behind a counter, shelves filled with white, grey, black, and brown linens stretched behind him as he boredly worked on some whittling.

He looked up when they entered, "New one?" was all that was asked.

"He needs the usual initiate whites," the teen said, still grasping his hand tightly, as though to make sure he didn't run. But he wouldn't run. Where would he go? His father was dead and he was in a strange land far from home, and those men who had killed his father were still out there. They were part of this, and he would kill them.

The man behind the counter heaved himself up with a groan. The man was wide, and fat and wore a stretched white set of robes with a red sash. He looked at the teenager, he also wore a red sash, as had the man in white and black. The man rifled through a stack of the white linens, and then the brown linens and came back to them with a small stack. "Here," he said gruffly, dropping them onto the counter. The teen motioned and he took the stack, one-handed.

"Safety and peace," the teen said with a nod of his head.

"Same to you," and then he was being dragged out of the room again, so quickly he almost fell over his own feet and dropped the linens.

He was led to a hall lined with doors, they stopped at one and the teen pulled back the lock and opened the door. "Go in, change your clothes, I will be back," and he went inside. It was the room he'd slept in last night. The door was closed and locked behind him.

He looked around to see what there was. It was dark though and there were no windows. There was a lamp though, burning low and on the ground. He went to it and turned it up, but not too high, he didn't know how much oil he'd get and didn't want to waste it, but enough to see by at least.

The room was by and large bare, there was his pallet on the ground and his blanket and single, misshapen, pillow. There was the lamp, and there was a small trunk. He went to the trunk and pushed open the lid. There was nothing inside. He put his new clothes in the trunk and then put the lamp on the floor and took off his old on went the lumpy white clothing that seemed to consume his form so he seemed to drown in them. There was a brown sash which he used to clench around his narrow waist to try and get it to fit properly, but would always be too big. There was a hood sewn into the white garment and he pulled it up, as he'd seen some of the boys do so. It was big on him and flopped over his eyes. He put on his old shoes.

Dressed, and with nothing to do, he sat on his pallet, turning the lamp down to not waste oil, and waited. As he waited he stared into the semi darkness. His father's face, now only half remembered, swam out from the darkness and gazed at him with black eyes. A few tears streaked down from his eyes and when he suddenly heard the lock move he quickly wiped them dry.

"Come," the teenager said when he opened the door. Azrael nodded and turned his lamp down to almost be out and went to the door. The teen took his hand again and led him down the hall to his first class.

—

In the first few days Azrael knew it was a good thing he never contemplated escaping Alamut. Here was where he'd get the skills to kill those men who had killed his father. He knew that now when he learned what the Order was. They were a group of elite warriors who killed for hire as well as for their own purposes. They were swords without hands and things that snuck into your home at night and left behind dead things. He remembered his father saying that and when he'd repeated it back to an instructor his teacher had just smiled a thin smile and said he was right.

He had class with other boys his age, those who wore the lumpy white garb. So Jawad and Gregory were both there. Jawad had a big mouth, but knew how to use it, and talked endlessly when you let him. Gregory was quieter, with an intense stare for his age and he and Azrael got along well together. They were both quiet, they let Jawad do the talking. Azrael liked having friends.

The classes were basic. Mathematics, Arabic, Hebrew, Latin, science, religion, and then physical exercise. Though it was mostly learning how to move and to give yourself a good wind, his physically instructors said that you could break a man if you tried to train him too early, because muscles could only get so large in a child. Better to teach them to be limber before you taught them to be strong. He didn't quite understand what that meant but he did not question it. No one questioned their instructors, doing so would get you smacked, hard, on the hand, or the face. You learned to listen and obey and do it properly the first time.

It was not a bad place though.

Azrael sat with Jawad in Jawad's room. Jawad had a roommate, a boy named Raid who was big for his age and trailed after Jawad when they weren't being shepherded around by their instructors. Jawad was talking, animatedly, as he always did, about Damascus, again. Jawad loved Damascus, and wanted to go back sometimes.

"Jawad," Azrael interrupted him and Jawad cut off mid sentence.

"What, Rashid?" he asked.

"The day I came here, there was something called 'the threshing'. What is the threshing?" he'd really heard enough about Damascus to last him a life time and wouldn't have minded if he never heard someone talk about Damascus again. Raid looked mildly relieved, though he was too nice a boy to interrupt like Azrael did.

"The threshing is when we get to leave Alamut," Jawad said. "Boys who have the promise to be assassins and are seven years old are taken to Masyaf, where they train to become assassins."

"And what about the boys who aren't picked?"

"They stay here, in Alamut, and become scholars," Azrael's lips curled back.

"I will be an assassin," he said softly, like a promise.

"Most boys are threshed. But some stay, those are the gray robes you see. They are still trained, but they are not Assassin."

"Why aren't you there?" he asked his friend.

"I turn seven in a few weeks, I was not old enough, same as you and Raid and all the other boys who are still here."

"I don't want to be a scholar," Azrael said.

"Me neither, the books are dusty and boring," he made a face and Azrael smiled slightly.

"Do you know what happens when we go to Masyaf?" he asked.

"No," he shook his head. "None of the boys ever come back from Masyaf, sometimes, as adults they do, I'm told. But never as boys like us. They replace the old men as our teachers." Azrael nodded slowly. "But the threshing is a long time off now, it was only a month ago. Are you that eager?"

Azrael's eyes grew dark, "There's something I must do," he said quietly. "I can't do it here in Alamut, I know that now," Jawad eyed him.

"You're a funny one Rashid," Jawad smiled widely and there was a sudden urgent knocking.

The door opened a fraction, "Harutyan is coming," a boy hissed and Azrael scrambled to his feet. Harutyan was the one who watched their wing and if you were found in another boy's room come the morning after he locked the doors you'd get beat. If you were caught outside after he locked the doors, you got beat. If your door was unlocked after he locked them, you got beat. Never hard, but enough that no one ever wanted to tempt Harutyan. He was a nice man otherwise, but he did not stay his hand when it came to disobedience.

He slipped out the door and ran down to his own room, the other boy was already gone. His door was still unlocked and when he looked behind him he saw that Harutyan was coming towards him, locking all the doors from the outside as he went. He looked at the man in the white and black trimmed robes, but the man did not look at him. Then, his lips thinning a moment, he pulled open his door and went inside, closing the door surely behind him. He was undressing for bed when the door locked loudly.

—

Azrael was not a natural with the physical aspects of their training. That went to Gregory. Gregory was good at it and was amazingly limber and could do all the movements, slow or fast, as their instructor commanded them. But Azrael was still rather new, and he worked harder then the others. He worked and worked until he couldn't rise from the sand covered exercise room and the other boys had to pull him to his feet.

He was staring at the sand under him, holding a push up pose, nose almost touching the sand. He could hear his instructor walking amid their group, his long stick coming to press against this joint, or that muscle, or such a bone or body part, putting it into correct position. "Up," he barked and the class of seven lifted themselves up off the sand. He swallowed when the stick pressed against his back, "Straighten your back Rashid," he ordered. Azrael did, "Good," and then he moved on.

"Down," he barked and they lowered themselves back to almost kiss the sand. They held that pose for a long time too, Azrael's arms began to shake. Next to him a boy collapsed, his instructor whapped him once on the arm with his stick, it would leave a red mark, but it would fade. It was supposed to sting, not to bruise. The boy yelped and quickly got into position again, Azrael tried to think of other things, to distract himself from the pain in his arms.

He thought of the desert, a great expanse stretched out before him, and the gentle rocking of a camel. He didn't think of his father. Just the rocking, back and forth of the camel and the endless, endless, desert, stretching out around him at all sides as he rode a desert ship to no where. He felt the pain leave his arms, slowly, he swayed just slightly, barely noticeable, mimicking the motion of the camel.

"Rise," his instructor's voice cut through the hot desert and he pushed his legs forward, under him, and then hopped to his feet. The motion was mimicked by everyone around him. Their instructor eyed them. "Good," he said at last and smacked his stick lightly in his hand. "Off with you, I am done with you," and they neatly got their clothing from the side of the wall and filed out of the room.

—

Religion had never really held meaning to Azrael. His father had said Allah was a lie. He didn't know if that was true, but when he learned that Allah was just one name of a God with many faces, he was more inclined to believe that Allah was not a lie, but not a truth either.

Jawad was good at religion. His family had been Muslim before they'd been killed. Like the boys in Medina he knew a lot of Islam and the teachings of Muhammad. Surprisingly Gregory knew a lot as well, but he did not call his god Allah, to him god was simply God. It was very strange, especially to Azrael, as they seemed to be very much the same. And then there was also the Jewish form of god, and the gods of the pagans.

They didn't learn a lot about those gods though, They learned the stories of Allah and even Gregory, who did not worship Allah, was made to learn. When he said Allah was not his god the teacher had given him a long look and said, "God is all. There is only one god, and that is God, and Allah, and YHVH. He has many names, and many prophets, but his messages are always the same. We are one people under the Book, and Allah is one god above us all. Now open your mind and your ears, that is the purpose of our Order. We see what the others do not, do not let God be what breaks us apart." After that Gregory hadn't said a word.

Azrael had listened intently after that. He asked a lot of questions though. In the days following, where before he didn't show real interest in the class beyond it being a class, he soon learned to anticipate it the most along with his history and physical lessons. He thought that religion was amazing, because they were stories, nothing but stories, but they could _control_ people. Even to his young age he knew what sort of power that had. Religion made the world work, it turned the gears and made rational people turn into monsters, and monsters became rational. He was only six years old, but he saw what the others didn't, and he knew it. Their teacher knew it too. His father had been right, Allah was a lie, but it was a lie everyone wanted to believe. But he did not. Perhaps that was why he liked to learn about it so much.

It was also in that class they learned about the Creed. A Creed he didn't really understand.

"Nothing is true. Everything is permitted. That is our Creed," their instructor said. "Where the weaker men have religion, we have the Creed. No matter what you may be, Muslim, Christian, Hebrew, here, in these walls, in this brotherhood, it does not matter. When you say your prayers, remember the Creed."

"What does the Creed mean?" Azrael asked, he always had questions for their instructor.

"It means what it says. That nothing is true, and everything is permitted, and we must understand this, for without this, we are as blind, and as stupid, and as weak as the men and women we protect."

"So it's like the Commandments?" one of the boys said. "A rule."

Their instructor smiled a thin smile, "No. The tenets are our Commandments. Do you all know the tenets?"

"Do not harm the innocent," Azrael said.

"Do not compromise the Brotherhood," Qais said.

"Hide in plain sight," Jawad finished. They were out of order, but those there the tenets.

"Yes, those are our Commandments, and they are the most important rules you will ever know. To break the first is to break the second, to break the second is to break the third, and to break all three is to ask to be hung," there was a collective swallow. "Those who break the tenets are not our brothers, they are no better then the infidels that come from across the water, thinking they are better then us because they think _they_ have found God, and that they have claim in the Holy Land more then us. But they are wrong. Why is that?"

There was silence, but their instructor did not speak.

"Because we are one people of Allah," Azrael said hesitantly. "He has many names, but we are under their God just as they are under Allah, brothers under one God."

The instructor smiled, "Yes, that is correct," he said. "None of us are better then the other. But, some of us chose to be blind. It is our duty as Assassins to see the world with open eyes, to see what others refuse to see, and do for others what they are incapable of doing themselves. Do you understand?"

It was clear they didn't, but they nodded anyway. Azrael understood though, or he thought he did. He hoped he did.

—

A year turned.

Azrael grew smarter, grew stronger, and started to grow taller. He grew into his lumpy, shapeless, white garment, though it was always slightly bigger then him. He learned more things in a year then he ever had in the six years he'd been alive at all. The Order did not want idiots, not really. They wanted obedience, and they wanted strength, and wit. Azrael grew into all those things and while he was not the best in all his classes he was not the worst.

Then it came time for the threshing.

Their instructors told the boys who were old enough who would be leaving Alamut. Azrael was happy to know he was one of them. Jawad, Gregory and Raid were also in that number. They ate their last breakfast in the eating hall, talking. Azrael was excited to leave Alamut. None of them had been outside since they'd first come to the fortress, but Masyaf was not as big as Alamut, and it was open and there were more men, coming and going and horses. Or that's what Azrael imagined when their instructors told them few things about Masyaf.

The same man who had come last year was there this time. Azrael still did not know his name, he wasn't a regular teacher, but he appeared and when he did everyone stood. He told those who were going to go, they knew where to go, the others were for their classes.

Azrael followed after Jawad, Raid and Gregory following a step behind him. Jawad always led, for despite his size he was confident and a bit cocky, and had a silver tongue. He got that bit more then other boys. Azrael and Gregory were not like him, they were quiet, introverted, but both smart and clever in their own ways, it was just not the same way as Jawad. Raid was only so clever, but he was big and strong, and he followed Jawad like a big white shadow. He was Jawad's yes-man, even though Azrael didn't know what that really meant at the time, later he'd look back and see it.

None of them had any belongings. They weren't required to have any. Everything they had the Order gave to them, and the only thing they possessed was their bodies, and even then they were mostly owned by the Order. They went to the entrance, the only one there was, and waiting. There were some guards there, but they ignored the boys.

Then, a man appeared, he was dressed all in white and had a beaked hood, unlike the men here who did not. Under his gaze the boys looked away, even Azrael, though his eyes were shadowed by his own too-big hood. "I am Master Shehroze," he said, his voice deep, and even just speaking naturally he sounded dangerous. "You all know what is expected of you, do not cause any trouble when we leave Alamut." There was some nodding, meek nodding though it was, and then Master Shehroze ordered the doors to be opened.

The sun was still rising when they left the long tunnel from the doors to the sky outside the fortress. They all stared. For some boys had not seen the sun in years. Some had never seen the sun or sky at all, for they'd been brought to Alamut as children too young to remember. Though none of them made a noise he did see some look terrified, or in awe, and at least one boy tried silent tears. Azrael did not cry, he would not cry. He'd sworn to himself the last time he would cry would be for his father, and he already couldn't remember his face.

There were other men in white with beaked hoods waiting outside, their robes dusty purple and orange in the light of the new sun, and there was a covered wagon pulled by horses, and each of the men had a horse as well. They were loaded into the wagon, which was covered mostly in straw, some of the men helping the boys up who were still too small to clamber up themselves. They did so in silence. Once the last boy had been put into the wagon and the men remounted to their horses they were off.

He sat near Gregory, who was against the back of the wagon. "I never knew it was so big," Gregory said softly as they watched Alamut slowly get smaller.

"Me neither," Azrael said in a whisper in reply. Alamut was huge, a mountain of a castle, with rising spires and long wings he'd never been in, never even knew existed. His entire year had been spent in the bowels of the fortress, underground and, he realized, out of the way of whatever went on in the upper floors of Alamut. They said nothing more as they watched Alamut fade away and the sun rose. Some boys slept, others spoke in hushed tones, he and Gregory watched the landscape slowly change from the back of the wagon.

They stopped for midday meal and he was grateful for the big breakfast he'd had at Alamut, for the rations the white robed men gave them were dry and hardy, but not very tasty. They rested for an hour, long enough for the horses to rest, and the men and boys to relieve themselves and then they were put back into the wagon. This time the men were not silent sentinels. From the back of the wagon he saw some play coin tricks with their hands and then, from the front came something he never thought he'd hear. It made the entire wagon grow quiet.

At the front of their line one of the Assassins was… singing. It wasn't a happy song, but it wasn't exactly sad. It sounded like a song to pass the time and the men on either side of their wagon were humming or singing along, though softer, as there seemed to be an unspoken agreement that the man in the front had the best singing voice. The man sang for a while, singing several songs as they traveled, before he finally stopped. There was a strange silence around them when it was over. None of the boys knew quite what to say, but from some of the men on horseback there were calls that were encouraging, not all of them in Arabic. He recognized the sounds of Hebrew, but there was one other tongue he didn't recognize. Ahead the man who sang laughed.

Azrael smiled, "They sound like my brothers," a boy suddenly said. They all turned to him. He was smiling. "Before I came here, I had brothers. They were good, they acted like this."

"As we should," they started when one of the men spoke to them as a whole. His face was shadowed and he rode a dark horse. "We are a family, the only one you will ever have. Be kind to your brothers," he said. They nodded, yes, of course they would, their eyes said. A smirk flicked across his face and then he fell back a bit to the man who'd done coin tricks. They talked, but they were far enough away that they couldn't hear.


End file.
